


Hannibal's Hands

by JuliaJekyll



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Dinner, First Kiss, Fluff, Hannibal and Cooking, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, I promise, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Mild Blood, No one dies in this one, POV Hannibal, POV Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has a bit of a thing for Hannibal's hands. Just a fluffy little something I came up with after watching a lovely video of Hannibal cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hannibal's Hands

Will Graham rarely found himself enraptured by anything. It was true that his empathetic abilities demanded a great deal of him, and often took all—or on rare, deeply painful occasions, more than all—of his focus, but he would hardly call that rapture. It was more like a binding; a trap from which he had always wished he could escape, despite the undeniable usefulness of the so-called “gift” in his profession. He tended to think of rapture as something only beauty could bring, and now he had the proof.

Hannibal Lecter had the most beautiful hands Will had ever seen. He'd first noticed them during one of his therapy sessions, sitting across from the other man during one of his usual moments of avoiding eye contact. At some point, his gaze had fallen on the psychiatrist's hands and stayed there, while his own hands had fidgeted with uncontrollable nervousness in his lap.

Hannibal's hands, unlike Will's, were always calm, often clasped smoothly together as if their owner were unaware of just how beautiful they were. They were covered in even, pale skin, broken only by the tendons and veins that stood out just enough to give an impression of strength. His fingers were long, not stubby, and virtually hairless, and his fingernails were somehow always immaculate. Will had never seen him plagued by so much as a hangnail.

More than their aesthetic attractiveness, though, were all the things those hands could do. Will had watched Hannibal write in flowing script that looked like it could pass for a nineteenth-century letter--did everyone write like that wherever Hannibal was from originally, and that, like his drop-dead gorgeous accent, was something Hannibal had never managed to shake?--he'd watched him play the piano like a goddamned virtuoso, and now, he was watching him cook.

That was probably the most surprising thing about Hannibal: in the time they'd known each other, Will had begun to think of him as a friend, and Hannibal apparently felt the same, as evidenced by the fact that he'd invited Will to his house and offered to make dinner. Will couldn't deny that the suggestion had made him a bit nervous, but as he sat in Hannibal's kitchen watching the other man expertly handle food, he was immensely glad he'd accepted it.

Hannibal's graceful, skillful hands mixed a combination of flour and herbs atop a cutting board, leaving trace amounts of white powder on his cuticles, which he brushed off on his apron before turning to the meat. After watching him prepare it for cooking for a moment, Will managed to raise his eyes from Hannibal's hands to his face. The other man wore a look of concentration, his focus entirely rooted to the food in his hands, the raw material with which he would soon be making his own sort of art. Hannibal blinked, angling his face slightly so that the light hit it better, and Will had a sudden flash of imagining how soft those dark eyelashes would feel against his own cheek.

Will shook his head slightly, feeling himself redden as he directed his gaze back to Hannibal's hands. Being that close to Hannibal—not to mention the things that might happen if such proximity were to occur—were decidedly not the sort of things he ought to be thinking about, but it didn't help matters that Hannibal was not only handsome as hell, but preferred to cook in his shirtsleeves. He'd shed the jacket, tie, and wristwatch that were part and parcel of his usual daily attire and wore only a starched white shirt, leaving less to the imagination as far as what was underneath. Will could see the veins and lean muscle that lined Hannibal's forearms, and he realized in that moment just how badly he wanted to touch the other man; to feel those lovely hands on his skin. He felt sure that Hannibal, despite his upright, hard exterior, would have a tender touch.

Will had to force himself not to look up again, because he'd suddenly had the unbidden thought of curiosity about Hannibal's lips, and he felt that it would be wandering into even more dangerous territory if he were to look at them now.

“Will, do you like shallots?” Hannibal asked suddenly.

Startled out of his reverie, Will looked up, then almost immediately back down again when he caught Hannibal's serious, interested eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Sure,” he said, even though he didn't have the vaguest idea what a shallot might be. He had the distinct feeling that Hannibal picked up on this, but the older man had the grace to nod and go on with cutting the meat. “I'm glad you feel that way,” Hannibal said, “since their onion-like flavor blends excellently with carrots, which I have it on good authority you also enjoy.”

Will barely managed not to breathe a sigh of relief at this elaboration. “Sounds delicious,” he said, meaning it.

Hannibal met his eyes before he could look away, and strangely enough, Will found that this time, he didn't want to. He liked what he saw in Hannibal's dark eyes: honesty, sincerity, and something else that Will was fairly certain was hope, though he did not know for what. Almost involuntarily, Will smiled, and Hannibal's lips quirked up at the corners in return.

 

Hannibal had always found cooking to be a very calming activity, and if he was being honest with himself—which he preferred to be to the furthest extent he could manage—he needed calming tonight. Hannibal was a confident man, comfortable in his own skin and not the slightest bit shy about letting people know it, but damned if Will Graham didn't make him vaguely restless. Often in his office, it was a struggle to keep his hands still when he was talking to Will, which was strange, because Hannibal had always prided himself on his self-control. It was partly annoying, partly exhilirating, to have found someone who brought out that kind of reaction in him, and so, after weeks of turning the idea over in his mind, Hannibal had broken down and asked the other man to his house for dinner. To his surprise and delight, Will had agreed.

Working on the food served another purpose, as well: it made it so Hannibal didn't have to look at Will. Not that Will was difficult to look at; quite the contrary, but for some elusive reason, Hannibal had never craved another person's touch as much as he did Will's, and he was afraid to look at him too much for fear that he might act on his impulses and that it would not be well-received.

And so, after asking Will about the shallots, Hannibal began cutting the said vegetable. He got through three shallots without incident, losing himself in the rhythm of the cutting, before pushing them aside to busy himself with the carrots. It was when he was halfway through the first one that Will spoke suddenly:

“Hannibal, where are you from?”

The question was so sudden and surprising—Hannibal had actually forgotten that Will didn't know he was Lithuanian by birth, not to mention that he hadn't expected him to ask at that moment—that his knife came down wrong, his other hand shifted instinctively, and he felt a sharp slice into the meat of his left hand.

As a man of medicine and a frequent preparer of meats, Hannibal was no stranger to blood, but the sudden pain, coupled with the surprise of seeing a gash in his palm that had not been there a moment ago and that he had made no conscious decision to make, combined to make him freeze momentarily. He was sure he would have snapped out of it and calmly treated the injury himself if given a few extra seconds, but Will did not give him the chance.

“Hannibal!” Will cried out his name, then bolted upright and moved faster than Hannibal had ever seen him move, coming around the counter to gently pull the knife out of Hannibal's right hand and close his hand around Hannibal's left wrist, onto which bright blood had already begun dripping.

“I'm so sorry; are you alright? I didn't mean to distract you,” Will babbled as he grabbed a dish towel and pressed it against Hannibal's bleeding hand. His fingers were warm against Hannibal's skin.

“I'm quite alright,” Hannibal assured him, despite the fact that he could already see blood seeping through the rag and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to finish preparing dinner on his own. Well, there went _that_ romantic evening.

“Come with me; I'll bandage it,” Will said, and began dragging Hannibal out of the kitchen. Hannibal didn't resist, still vaguely stunned. He hadn't cut himself while cooking in years.

Despite never having been to Hannibal's home before, Will led the way unerringly to the bathroom and all but shoved Hannibal down onto the edge of the bathtub. “Or would you rather go to the hospital?” Will asked, dabbing at Hannibal's hand with the rag, which was now stained with Hannibal's blood. “Do you think you need stitches? Because that's a bit beyond my ability.”

“No; it's slowing down,” Hannibal said. “I don't believe it's as bad as it first appeared.”

“Must hurt, though,” Will commented. He gestured at the linen closet. “May I?”

“Please do.”

After a moment of rummaging, Will located gauze bandages, tape, and hydrogen peroxide. Hannibal flinched slightly as he rubbed the disinfectant on the wound, gently wiping away the blood that gathered at the edges as he did so. Over the initial shock now, Hannibal relaxed and allowed Will to minister to him, actually a bit glad that there was a reason for Will to touch him.

Fascinated by Will's careful movements and focus, Hannibal indulged in watching him, wishing he could push his uninjured hand through those beautiful brunette curls, and then...what? He allowed himself, for one moment, to imagine angling Will's face upward and kissing him, just once.

“Well, there we are,” Will said, sitting back on his heels to let Hannibal inspect his handiwork.

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal said, turning his hand over and looking at the bandage, which, thankfully, was clean of blood. He was careful not to flex his palm. “Shall we return to our meal preparations?”

“I'd like that,” Will said. “I can help, if you like.”

Hannibal nodded. “Yes, I would be most grateful if you would.”

The two men smiled at each other, as they had earlier, and then they left the bathroom and started down the hallway toward the kitchen. “By the way,” Hannibal said as they walked, “in answer to your question...I'm originally from Lithuania.”

“Hm,” Will said. “I always wondered, but I can't say I'd ever have guessed that.”

 

Will helped Hannibal cut the remainder of the vegetables after they'd cleaned the blood from the knife and the cutting board, and dinner was served not too far behind the schedule Hannibal had had in mind. They had a lovely conversation as they ate the equally lovely food they'd made together, and Hannibal found himself smiling more than was his custom in any given company. He had to concede to himself that he liked Will, probably more than was proper.

After dinner, Hannibal opened—well, had Will open; Hannibal did not want to risk re-opening his cut—a bottle of red wine and poured them both a glass. It was a warm, pleasant evening, so they went outside and sat on the terrace to drink it.

“Thank you for inviting me here tonight, Hannibal,” Will said. “I really had a great time. You are a splendid cook.”

Hannibal laughed. “Thank you for being here and for the compliment,” he said. “And, of course, for your medical attention.”

“Amateur medical attention,” Will said with a grin.

“Amateur attention was all I required.” Gingerly, Hannibal adjusted the left cuff of his shirt. “Aside from that minor debacle, I found tonight quite enjoyable.”

“As did I,” Will agreed, taking a sip of his wine. A bit nervously, it seemed, he tapped his fingernails on the side of his glass.

“Will,” Hannibal said quietly. Will turned to look at him, and Hannibal took a deep breath. “Will, I truly value your company. I realize it was forward of me, as your psychaitrist, to attempt to form a...well, a friendship between us, but I do hope that you did not find it rude.”

“Not at all.” Will's hands slid around the edges of his glass. “Actually, I'm glad of it.”

Hannibal nodded. “Good.” He too took a drink. The wine was fantastic.

“How's-how's your hand?” Will stammered, eyes rooted to Hannibal's left hand, which was still wrapped in a bandage of Will's making. Hannibal gave him a reassuring nod. “On the mend,” he said, “though the pain is not entirely gone and I imagine that I shall have a scar.”

“That's alright,” Will blurted suddenly. “Your hands will still be beautiful.”

That remark was every bit as surprising to Hannibal as the question about his origins; possibly more so. He looked up at Will with eyebrows raised and saw that Will had flushed from forehead to neck. It was actually quite attractive.

“Thank you,” Hannibal said. It had been a compliment, after all, if a strange one.

Will nodded, looking mortified. “I...” Hesitantly, he reached out and took Hannibal's injured left hand, turning it over and making a show of examining the palm. “Looks...good,” he said.

“Will.” Gently, Hannibal placed his undamaged hand on top of Will's. Will looked up and gifted Hannibal with a rare moment of eye contact. They stared at each other for a moment, all four of their hands touching, and then Hannibal, acting chiefly on impulse but also not missing the desire in Will's eyes, leaned forward and brushed his lips against the younger man's.

Will stiffened, his grip on Hannibal's good hand tightening...and then he kissed Hannibal back. The kiss turned from something uncertain and searching to something long, slow, and tender. Hannibal parted his lips and felt Will's mouth respond, moving with his. As if they'd agreed on it, both men stood up so that they could hold each other, never breaking the kiss that had taken possession of them both.

Hannibal felt a rush of arousal as he pulled Will's body flush with his, every inch of him pressed against every inch of Will. Will tilted his head back slightly, allowing Hannibal to take control of the kiss, which he eagerly did. He tangled his right hand in Will's hair, carefully resting his left hand on Will's shoulder, and kissed him hard, tasting wine and the unmistakeable heat of want.

Will's hands migrated to Hannibal's waist, then moved up his stomach and chest, feeling the muscle under the crispness of the shirt. At last he reached the skin at the base of Hannibal's neck, where he proceeded to unbutton his collar and spread his fingers over the taller man's beautiful, sharp collarbones.

Hannibal moaned and gently bit down on Will's lower lip, rolling the flesh between his teeth until Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal's neck, making small groans of arousal into Hannibal's mouth.

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal said roughly, breaking away for a moment. “I've wanted...this...for...so long.” As he spoke, he kissed down Will's neck.

“Kiss me,” was Will's only response as he pulled Hannibal's head back to his, pressing their lips together, the proverbial ball now in his proverbial court. His fists closed around Hannibal's hair. He was pulling, but Hannibal didn't give a damn as he kissed the corner of Will's mouth, then moved to his jaw and back to his neck.

“Hannibal,” Will moaned. He rubbed his hands up and down Hannibal's back, then raised his face to kiss him soundly on the lips once more. “Oh, Hannibal.”

When eventually their frenzied kisses quieted back to slow, soft ones, Will gently took both of Hannibal's hands, then broke their kiss and brought the injured one to his lips, carefully kissing it over and over, on both sides. “Your hands...are so beautiful,” he informed Hannibal, before turning his attention to the right one.

Hannibal smiled. “I truly appreciate that, Will,” he whispered. “I hope you will still think so if I do wind up with a scar.”

Will raised his face to look at Hannibal again. “If you do,” he said, “at least there'll be a good memory attached to it.”

Hannibal laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that's true,” and leaned down to kiss Will again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, you can also check out "Hannibal's Lips", which is kind of the sequel.   
> Love, Julia


End file.
